


Guest

by hauntedpoem



Series: Stories from the fairy's house [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Memories, Past Loves, pushing fairies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 12:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10536939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Maedhros doesn't feel like a prisoner. Not exactly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Maedhros tries to make sense of the things around him.

Maedhros doesn't feel like a prisoner. Not exactly. 

It's not like he cannot kill himself if he wanted it. He had plenty of knives. His sword and his daggers were under the bed. It wasn't as if the elf maid could stop him if he really wanted to do it. He could tie a noose around his neck just fine. He could refuse to eat. He could do many things.

He's well taken care of and free to roam the house and its surroundings but he didn't try to leave for good. He still has to find a reason. 

If she wanted, she could have killed him on his sick bed before he even woke up. If she didn't want him to live, she could have left him to his suicidal plans, left him to the fiery chasm. He could have been no more. 

 Was there any explanation for his hand? He didn't dare ask yet. But he wanted to, desperately.

The stranger cared for him like no other. It reminded him of his brothers, of his amil. He still had a chance of seeing her, if the Valar would ever let him pass. He didn't even think of dying again. 

It was as if he's been doused in hope. His mind, neglected in the pits of despair grasped at the possibilities and forced itself to change the old patterns. 

Of course, he wasn't an idiot. He wasn't an optimist either. Maedhros was a realist and critical thinking was something his atar taught him from an early age.

He was in no need to be babied and he definitely was not a patient but the elf maid insisted on 'caring' for him and he had no objections to her treatment. She was nice if a little bit savage. Maedhros wanted to delight her, see her happily jump on his bed with nervous limbs and sparkly eyes. He even liked it when she threatened him with her many wooden spoons. It reminded him of Caranthir. 

 She fed him and nurtured him.  Her hand was firm and sometimes commanding but never cruel. It reminded him of his parents in the first years of his life, carrying him everywhere, giving him all the attention they could.

 Maedhros grew accustomed to her broths and soups and finely minced dishes of roots and leaves. He could taste the wilderness. He preferred the long stretches of silence in which only the fire would consume the logs he chopped during the day. 

Then they were alone, each with his own thoughts, yet accommodating,  pretty much like his parents used to be when Maedhros was too young and useless in the forge or uncoordinated with a chisel in his hand

This was his medicine and secretly, he was grateful for it. Strangely, he had no regrets.Her company made him forget about the darkness of his past. Such a sweet, energetic thing she was! He instantly thought of the twins and how they liked running around the garden, messing with Caranthir's neat little crops of herbs.

Maedhros has restless dreams. His mind was so overactive, probably because of lack of use since his failed attempt. He spent so much time unconscious and now he seemed to be recovering as many memories, despite the unpleasantness of the process.

Maedhros dreams of Fingon. He also dreams about his hand and how he lost it. But his hand is here with him. Fingon was not, though. Perhaps these were the limits of magic, he thought.

Life with an amputated hand was hard enough. He centred all his skills on sword fighting and close combat. He dressed in uncomplicated clothes and all his boots lacked lacing. He would not complain. The hand was good. He would touch it with awe and marvel at the tissue, perfect as it used to be in the light of Valinor. 

Now, his mind brims with dreams and fantastic possibilities. Life is such a beautiful thing that he closes his eyes and all it takes is to imagine and in a matter of minutes, he is an able-bodied man who can do anything. 

His former life seems so far away yet always with him. When did his soul expand so much? For the first time, he doesn't feel the pressure of the oath. Had it been broken? Had it been rendered void? Was he forgiven? If not, why was he still alive and perfect like his naneth brought him into this world?

Love's woes seem childish to him now. He realises he cannot draw Fingon's visage anymore. The planks of wood he made and the coal are put to other uses, instead. He draws the neverending trees and their branches moving in the wind. A deer. A rabbit. 

In the small hours of the morning, he sometimes sees her about the house. Many a time he tried to find out her origin but she would push him back on the bed and wave the spoon menacingly at him when he would get too close to her. Instead, she did get too close to him, even though it was only to admonish him or prod his chest with a  tiny finger. He would stay put, eyes watering with humour at her small body overpowering - if just for an instant- his larger, taller one.

Maedhros always lets her win. Just like he did with sweet Makalaure when he was a toddler. His brother's eyes would become molten silver with tears when he would lose a toy or scrap a knee.  She had a point, there, this elf-woman. He was a guest, this was her house. He would behave.  Her house, her rules.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
